Thursday, December 12, 2013

What Does Cancer Feel Like?

What does cancer feel like?

I’ve been struggling to answer
that question since I was diagnosed with a rare, malignancy known as
gastrointestinal stromal tumor (GIST) on February 18, 2011. I cannot remember
what I am wearing right now without looking down, but I recall every nanosecond
of the date, place, time and, well even, the way the ER doctor lowered her eyes
before informing me “You have a mass in your
abdomen.”

I am writing this almost a year later because my online
support group asks everyone to write about their "journey”. This is my story. I am a dentist and professional writer.
I have been writing books, articles, speeches, poems, and songs since I learned
to make my mark. Writing is my preferred form of expression, rivaled only by my
ability to talk at great lengths about almost anything. (My friends are nodding
and smiling here.) Word play and my sense of humor have been my crutches
through 50 years of –isms: sexism, regionalism,
racism. I’m not complaining. It ism what
it ism. Right?

I did okay in love and life by most measures. Still, I
maintain that I didn’t climb a ladder to
independence; I climbed a craggy range of mountains with my bare hands and
feet, begging God for grace every treacherous step of the way. In other words,
I don’t give up easily.

“I shall not die, but live.” Psalm 118:17

I only speak for me but, so far, the disease is the only
thing that doesn't cause me pain. I never felt the mass growing from my stomach
10 cm into my abdomen and metastasizing to my liver. My annual physicals and
blood tests did not detect it. In fact, had it not been for an episode of food
poisoning, my condition likely wouldn’t have been detected for a few
more years.

GIST does not respond to traditional chemotherapy or
radiation. I take a brown poison pill called Gleevec every day and hope they
find a cure before I die. The side effects, IV's, and CT scans evoke a
mile-long stream of four-letter words, but I struggle to find one adjective to
describe the actual cancer despite my above average lexicon.

It doesn't hurt.

When I was around 16 years old, three masked robbers came
into the fast food place where I worked. One of them held a gun to my head as
he instructed me to put the contents of the cash register into a bag. He didn’t say another word. He didn’t
have to. I knew a worker at another store had been killed in a similar
situation even though she cooperated with their demands. I wondered if I would
suffer the same fate. Should I disobey him and fight to my certain death? Or
cooperate and hope for mercy? That’s what cancer feels like.

Why me?

After surgery to remove the primary tumor, I eventually
went back to life as anything but usual. I now have laser like focus on the
things I am uniquely qualified to do, such as spending a lot more time with my
family and friends. Every day I try very hard to do something meaningful that
brings me joy--not satisfaction or praise--but measurable happiness. Every day
I try to forget the specter of death pressing the barrel of an illegal assault
rifle to the back of my head: an unrelenting robber of my time. Most days, I
succeed for several hours until fatigue, nausea, or a friendly hug that lasts
30 seconds longer than it did a year ago becomes a whisper from this menace, “Hey you, I’m still here. I may pull this
trigger tomorrow or one-thousand tomorrows from now. Tick tock, Precious.”

Not long ago, everyone diagnosed with GIST simply died.
Now, we have treatments but there is no cure. Everyone I love sees this threat
and feels pity for me. I am unaccustomed to this type of attention. It is more
painful than the cancer. My goal is to make my family forget what I cannot.

“I have cancer but cancer doesn’t have me.”

I don’t know who said it first. I
only know that phrase has become my mantra. Each day I rise is a gift from God,
not a pardon from death. There are many wonderful people praying for my
survival. There are researchers around the world looking for a cure. Meanwhile,
I take my meds and hope my best achievements help more people than my colossal
failures harm. I've decided that I will not pause and wait for death: she will
have to catch me. I am a realist by nature. I have planned my funeral down to
the words on my tombstone but I did not die today. So I shall live.

The significance of my story for you, if any, is my plea
that you stop procrastinating about that thing YOU are uniquely qualified to
do: the book, the degree, the wedding, or perhaps forgiveness. Why? Unlike my
cancer, living beneath your potential and being chronically unfulfilled can be
cured. I hope cancer will wait; I hope you won’t.

Live stronger.

Monica
Anderson, D.D.S. is an author, community activist, and motivational speaker.
She lives in Austin, Texas.

Welcome to my blog!

I'm a life learner with a background that covers everything from fry cook at Burger King to private practice to mother of two. My friends voted me "Most Witty" back in high school. I have a doctorate, but that's still my favorite credential. I am a professional mOe-tivational speaker with a knack for illustrating the point of difficult life lessons with a pinch of wit. This blog is simply the fun and frank observations of a middle-aged woman who's not afraid to speak her age or her mind.